Cyberpunk 2077: Demons of Night City

The knife struck me before I saw it coming.
It seemed like the punk was out of the fight, but as I got close to finish him off, he suddenly went berserk. Don't know if it was cyberware or drugs, but the bastard, lying on the ground, drove his knife right into the side of my shin. A muted flash of pain. I bent down, drove my own knife into his neck, but shadows of new attackers were already flickering around me in the dark alley. It was the end.
"End simulation!" I called out, loud.
The wound in my leg vanished. The defeated punk and the other opponents dissolved into a shimmering mist.
I requested the exit command and soon felt myself returning to my normal body. The same old chair under me, and the brain-dance ring flickering in front of my eyes.
"How was it?" Jackie asked.
"Not bad…" I answered. "But the moves feel a bit off, and the opponents feel kinda OP."
"Knife-fight simulators are pretty rare," T-Bug replied through comms.
She didn't want to meet in person, so Jackie brought me a selection of chips she was selling. He's acting as her "dealer," apparently.
"V, a simulation's not gonna replace real training," Wells explained. "These are for something else—to build up tactics, get a feel for the fight. But muscle memory? That comes from real movement."
"So, taking anything?" T-Bug prodded. "Militech's four hundred, Arasaka's five, and the transport sims are seven hundred each."
"Not bad prices," I smirked. "So why're you pushing this stuff anyway? Jackie made you out to be a top-tier runner."
"You street samurai think the Net's some magic garden where eddies grow on trees. Sit in an ice bath, and just download cash. Sorry, doesn't work like that. The Net's got dangers, and sometimes it's smarter to sell chips than risk pulling the attention of the Watch or dealing with AI."
'Dangers of the Net? I'd know—I was one of them for a few decades.'
"So, you buying or what?" Bug interrupted.
"Yeah, the transport one, Arasaka's basic, and that knife fight one. Sending over the payment. And tell me this… you've had run-ins with the Watch?"
"On that subject, V, I'll keep my silence," Bug replied, ending the call.
"She's good people," Jackie commented. "A bit prickly, but straight in her work."
In one possible future, T-Bug's brain would get fried remotely by black ice. One of the many victims of the Konpeki mess. But there was another version of events. In that one, Bug survived Konpeki and helped DeShawn take me out. It looks like that stayed as just a possibility, but I'll keep it in mind. Jackie's fond of T-Bug—he's that way with a lot of folks. But the runner's ultimately focused on her own survival. I can't blame her for that, but I'll file that in the mental dossier.
Later that night, winding down after some cardio, I asked Lucy about the Watch. We were tucked away in a quiet corner on the second floor of El Coyote Cojo.
"You ever had any run-ins with the Watch?"
"No. I kept a low profile on the Net. Kiwi did, though. Those problems haunted her for years."
"Is it really that bad?" I asked, feigning surprise.
"Nothing else compares to the Watch. You started as a corp runner. You had special privileges. But to them, any free runner is just prey."
"That why you preferred stealing shards instead of data?"
"Bingo. Take all the worst parts of cops and corpos, and you get the Watch."
"But the Voodoo Boys seem to be able to keep them at bay."
"More like hiding," Lucy replied. "The Voodoo Boys have Pacifica—the abandoned metro, Dogtown, and local support. But if you're on your own or just a small crew, taking on NetWatch is a joke. It's like playing poker with someone who's got twice the cards and a bottomless bank. You see those news stories about some teenage genius hacking the system? How long do those kids last? They end up in prison, enslaved by some corp, or with their brains fried if they're lucky."
'Guess that's how Songbird got snagged by the FIA.'
"Know what makes the Net different from the streets of Night City?" She gave me a wry smile.
"Fewer bums?"
"Well, that too. But also, no one has to clean up the bodies or wipe the blood. Runners can die by the dozens there—no one even keeps track."
"Alright, I'm not planning any database raids just yet. So, how's Faraday's money looking?"
Lucy twisted her lips and said, "He was trying to look richer than he was. Don't expect much, V. Some of his accounts are frozen. Others are already tapped. We'll have enough for a couple of cocktails, but think about what to keep the crew busy with."
I'd already dug into some of Faraday's files and info stolen from work.
"I've got a few small options. An illegal shop for chopping stolen rides, a fence in Northside, a small underground casino. No golden mountains. Not even silver. But maybe enough to stop Becca from hitting you up for eddies for a couple of weeks. Right now, I'm just getting chromed up and training. It's fine if we break even or even go a little in the red. After that…"
"Your name will ring out in Afterlife?"
"Not necessarily. I'm saying we should lay low for a bit. When I've added some new chrome to my old tricks, we'll go after something big."
"Don't rush it. I've lost two friends to chrome already. Don't want that to happen again."
I didn't tell her that what took down Maine wasn't just chrome but bad, outdated chrome and a ton of stubbornness on top of it. Plus, I wasn't sure I'd even get cyberpsychosis in the traditional sense. With too much load on my nervous system, I'd probably just start losing sync with my body faster.
The next day was packed. Morning run, then an hour in the sim, weight training in the afternoon, and a job in the evening.
Combining surgery with intense physical workouts felt as strange as having a synthetic arm that somehow could feel things.
After getting the frame, Vic installed a Kerenzikov stim system on me. It set me back nine grand, installation included. It's no Sandevistan, but it'll make me a bit quicker in slow time. It should also make using other implants easier.
I took to the Kereznikov system pretty well. It's technically brain surgery, but the frame installation was way rougher.
"Any flickers in your vision? Feeling dizzy?" Vic asked.
"Not really," I answered, blinking rapidly.
"Good. Kerenzikov's not the heaviest chrome. I don't think you'll have issues with it. But what's next on your list?"
"Armor, reinforced bones, microrotors," I listed. "Adrenaline booster, emergency accelerator, blood pump."
"You're gearing up like it's war, V. Don't overdo it."
"My whole life's a fight," I grinned.
"Come back in a week. Won't see you before then. If your numbers are good, I'll put in one or two things from your list. But try to take it easy. Live a healthy life. Or at least… try."
"I am," I said honestly.
The next week was all about getting ready. Training, sim sessions, adaptive meds. Then another visit to Vic's clinic. This time, he set me up with subdermal face and skull armor along with microrotors to boost blood flow and lighten the load on my heart. Fourteen and a half grand for the whole package.
At first, the armor felt foreign, like wearing a tight mask I couldn't take off. I stared at my face in the mirror, surprised. Outwardly, nothing had changed.
"Looking for scars?" Vic joked. "Want a discount for sloppy work?"
"Nah. It's just... strange. Doesn't look any different. Maybe my forehead's sticking out a bit more."
"That's not me. You just spent too much time slamming it against corpo walls."
"Fair enough. By the way, Gloria's working with you now? Couldn't quite catch on to that."
"Sometimes I call her to help. I mostly manage on my own, but I'm trying to get her on board for good. Not having much luck yet."
"Too bad. City healthcare's a real disaster," I said, standing up and setting the mirror aside. "So, another week?"
"Minimum safe time, in my opinion. If you're looking to avoid major issues down the line."
Avoiding issues was definitely on my agenda. Especially health problems. Life was bound to hand me enough issues anyway, so I might as well not create more for myself.
I left Vic's clinic at a brisk pace. The next day, I tested the microrotors during a run with Lucy. Racing her was still out of the question, but my endurance had noticeably improved. The loads that had pounded my heart against my ribs just a few days before now felt manageable. My blood flow was faster, though my breathing still lagged behind.
The following week, I had plans to hit either the fence or the chop shop. Lucy and Falco were already watching both.
But my training and prep were interrupted by some familiar symptoms. My hand started to feel cold. My real hand, not the chrome one. I gave myself a shot of meds, but it only held off the symptoms for a couple hours. By evening, my overall condition had worsened. The chills turned into fever, with a serious drop in energy. I had to skip my run. Hunger gnawed at me—a deep, hollow emptiness, mixed with the feeling that something was pulling me out of my body. I had to address this problem.
I'd thought about asking Jackie, but he was busy with a gig for Padre, so I called Rebecca. She'd been looking for a job. Figured I'd throw her something quick and easy.
"Yo!"
This time, I didn't stay silent.
"Hey. Think you could cover for me tonight? Two grand plus five if things get messy."
"Hell yeah. Who's coming?"
"Just us. The others are busy."
"Cool. You all right, choom? You sound like death warmed over."
"All good," I said, filling up a syringe. "Just tired. I'll swing by to pick you up. No issues with gear?"
"Psh, please. I'm strapped," she assured me.
Soon, I grabbed a small stash bottle of whiskey and a bag of old clothes I'd picked up dirt cheap for a night like this. It was already dark outside. A thin layer of clouds covered the sky, swallowing the stars, with only a sickly yellow moon peeking through.
'Задумывая черные дела, на небе ухмыляется Луна' I thought.
I hit up a 24-hour rental service and picked up a beat-up Thornton. The city's full of these. The city's also full of people like me, if you don't know what kind of ghost's hiding in this ex-corp shell and what plans he's got.
Didn't take long for Rebecca to show. I parked by the curb, honked, and soon enough, she jumped out of the doorway, a gym bag slung over her shoulder. She hopped into the passenger seat, tossing her stuff in the back. Something clinked inside the bag.
"Shotgun?"
"Yeah. A Crusher. You look pale as hell."
"It's nothing," I forced a weak smile. "I'll be fine soon."
I hit the gas. Streetlights in Northside burned a dim yellow, getting under your skin. Concrete fences around industrial zones, abandoned buildings, threatening graffiti—this place looked like someone's bad dream about a grim urban nightmare. Hard to believe people actually built a place like this.
Somewhere down a nearby street, we heard gunshots, but neither of us paid it any mind.
"So where we headed, choom? What's the gig?"
Truth was, nowhere in particular. I was just cruising, looking for the right mark.
"Gonna spin around here a bit, do some recon," I told Rebecca. "Then you'll sit tight in the car. Wait for my signal. If things get messy, I'll hit you up for backup."
"Yeah, okay. But what's the plan?"
I didn't have the energy to cook up another lie. Kept it vague to avoid questions down the line.
"Listen, Becca, I really wanna stay cool with you, but let's make a deal..."
"About what, choom?"
"I'm a pro runner. Sometimes I gotta do some weird, sketchy stuff. Like now. Sure, I could explain every time—who I'm tailing, what I'm after, whatever… But do you really wanna hear all that? It'll just waste our time. I'd be droning on, you'd be bored. So let's just say, if I'm doing something strange, it's on purpose. I'm not cracked. It's all part of the plan."
Becca mulled that over for a minute and a half before she finally gave me a light punch on the shoulder and said, "Deal. You wanna pull some wild shit? I won't get in the way. I already figured you're a slick bastard."
"Damn right," I replied, slowing the car down.
In the next few minutes, I ditched Vic's halfway decent old jacket and threw on a ratty synthetic windbreaker with a couple of holes in the side. Messed up my hair. Then, I grabbed the whiskey bottle, splashed some down my collar, and poured a little more on my face.
"Choom, what are you..." Rebecca started, then stopped when she caught my dead-tired expression. "Alright, do your thing. Just leave me some booze."
"Here," I handed her the bottle. "Now, wait for my signal."
I stepped out of the car, switching my stride right away. Walked slow, unevenly, dragging my right foot. There weren't many people around. Across the street, a group of street punks were drinking, ignoring me completely. One guy glanced my way, only to be met with a blank, soulless look—the look of someone who's already hit rock bottom. He lost interest immediately, dropping his hand on the thigh of some tattooed chick.
I shuffled on. Didn't take long before I spotted him. Leaning against a concrete fence by an abandoned industrial lot was a guy in a tracksuit with a certain look about him. A tattoo on his bare forearm caught my eye. Half of it was an old Soviet symbol, next to half the Night City badge. The words below it read: "Born in the USSR, living in a shithole." He'd been tagging the wall but stopped when he noticed me. Slowly, he started following me.
A couple of times, I staggered, pretending I was about to keel over. Each time, he paused, keeping an eye on me, then kept walking when I pulled myself together. Perfect.
Why so many Scavs in Night City? V's memories had given me a few reasons. First, the USSR had a high birthrate. Second, they'd had a tough policy on crime, driving a lot of it underground or pushing unwanted elements abroad. So it doubled as a way to both rid themselves of "undesirables" and keep potential agents planted overseas for the KGB.
This guy wasn't letting up. After about a hundred meters, I turned into an alley, much to our mutual satisfaction. We were both hunting, but the real question was, who'd be the prey tonight?
I knew the spot well. Just the other day, Lucy and I had jogged by here. Abandoned buildings on both sides and the skeletal frames of old cars. Just darkness ahead. Not a single streetlight. I staggered, made it look like I'd stumbled, and braced myself against a locked, rusted door. The show was building to its final act.
I turned, staring at him with blank, empty eyes.
"Come on… here, kitty-kitty," the Scav smirked, inching closer.
He had a taser glinting in his hand. Right. Didn't even bother with a gun, thought he was just dealing with a half-conscious nobody.
When the Scav was just a couple steps away, I lunged. My right hand shot out, grabbing my Kenshin pistol, and my left hand struck him in the gut with a "tiger's claw." A needle sprang out, delivering a hit of tranquilizer straight to his system. Meanwhile, I had the gun pressed right up to his face.
"Move, and I'll blow your brains out," I said, cool and firm.
The Scav hadn't expected that from his "helpless" prey.
"Easy, easy now" the Scav said, backing up slowly. "Got it, I'm leaving."
"Hold up. What were you planning on doing to me?" I asked, stalling a bit.
"Do to you? Nothing, no hard feelings, right?" he mumbled as his eyelids started to droop. "I was just..."
The tranquilizer kicked in. Time to drag his body to a more discreet spot.
"No hard feelings," I chuckled, pulling him deeper into the shadows. "Your only crime was that I'm starving."
I stuffed his limp body into a crevice under an old building wall. Then I climbed in myself, covering the entrance with a rusted, rattling sheet of metal. It smelled like rot and decay. Hardly anyone would poke around here. Even the squatters avoided it. Time to feast.
Just in case, I loaded him up with a virus shard. That'd keep him from screaming or struggling, drawing any unwanted attention.
It'd been a while since I used my special skills. My unseen tendrils started to uncoil, reaching out one by one, getting ready to go to work. In just a couple of seconds, they locked into the structures of my caught prey, and I fully plunged into the enthralling process of virtual consumption. Didn't see, didn't hear anything. All I could sense was the poor bastard's memories, which I shredded like a scav doc hacking up a sad sack on his operating table.
First, I severed the oldest memories, then cut away dreams of the future. All that would be left was a thick, raw cocktail of the present. The total memory load on this guy was way less than Faraday's. Most of it was a jumbled mess, clouded with a cocktail of drugs. MDMA, Blue Glass, even BlackLace or whatever junk the guy's dealer pawned off on him. He'd been seriously hooked on all kinds of shit. But scattered amid all the trash were valuable fragments—names, contacts, gathering spots, deal locations. I worked to extract those, matching them up with my existing data, organizing it all.
The devouring took about twenty minutes. I came to in the foul-smelling dark, a fat cockroach exploring my face. Whatever, not even that could kill my mood.
I yanked the viral shard out of the lifeless body, rifled his pockets, took three hundred in cash, and bailed from the hiding spot.
The fever had passed. I felt like I'd been reborn, my whole body pulsing with life and energy. Not my life, not my energy.
I dumped the ratty jacket in an alley and practically leapt back into the driver's seat of the Thornton.
"V, did you…?" Rebecca looked at me, eyes wide. "You take something?"
"Nah. Clean as a space station porthole," I snorted back.
"Your eyes are freakin' blazing!"
"What can I say… Life's good! Life's freakin' great!"
I slammed the gas, the engine roaring as we tore off down the deserted streets of Northside. All sorts of interesting thoughts were brewing in my head. I wanted to either hit up a club or shoot somebody. But before I could make any moves, Jackie called me.
"V, got somethin'… Can you come right now?"
"I'm on my way. What's up? Trouble?"
"Vik called. Said he wanted to grab a beer, but really he just wanted to talk about you. Gotta tell you something. Urgent. Can't be done over the phone."
"Got it. I'm on my way."